


An Ideal Marriage

by Isis



Category: Importance of Being Earnest - Wilde
Genre: F/M, Pastiche, Quotations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:30:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Augusta Bracknell had been in love once, a very long time ago. Fortunately, she eventually recovered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ideal Marriage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinetikatrue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinetikatrue/gifts).



> Written For Yuletide 2007.

"You wished to see me, Mama?" said Gwendolen.

With her chin, Lady Augusta Bracknell indicated the plush chair opposite. Gwendolen sank into it most gracefully, she noted with approval; a book balanced on her head would not have fallen. "Tomorrow is your wedding day."

"Thank you for reminding me. I might have forgotten," murmured Gwendolen.

Augusta chose to ignore the impertinence. Her daughter was to be married and leave her household, and there were greater issues at stake. "Tomorrow is your wedding day, and there are certain…things you must know about marriage. Secrets, shall we say, that only a married woman can impart."

"There's no need for that, Mama."

"No need? Gwendolen, I am shocked."

"Oh—oh, no, Mama!" Gwendolen assured her. "I don't mean—what I mean is that dear cousin Cecily explained everything to me."

" _Cecily_? And how would she know such things?"

"Living in the country, naturally she has observed—well, you know," she finished, looking assiduously at the floor.

"I know?" said Augusta frostily.

There was a few moments' silence, during which Gwendolen did not meet her eye. Finally she blurted it out: "Nature."

Augusta frowned. "What on earth does nature have to do with marriage?"

By now, Gwendolen had turned quite pink, which Augusta regarded with secret, grim delight. To her chagrin, her daughter had somehow become a Modern Woman, her head filled with all sorts of ridiculous notions about independence and worldliness. Admittedly, these would be useful after her marriage, but they had no place in Lady Bracknell's household. So it was reassuring to see the blush blooming on Gwendolen's cheeks, and she savoured it for a moment before nodding briskly. "What we are discussing is marriage, and your place in society as Mrs Jack Worthing."

"Mrs _Ernest_ Worthing. He has returned to the name with which he was christened."

"Then why is he not Ernest Moncrieff? I can't abide a man who does things only by half-measures."

"Fortunately, Mama, _you_ do not have to. Besides, cousin Algernon is to be Ernest Moncrieff, and there can't be two of them, can there? Just think of the confusion!"

"He may do what he likes, but I shall not call him anything but Algernon."

"Oh, I don't expect anybody will," said Gwendolen carelessly. "Other than Cecily, of course."

"Then _what_ is there to be confused about?"

"It's the principle of the thing, I imagine."

"Well," said Augusta, mollified, "one must at least be seen to have principles, mustn't one. And that brings me to my point." She eyed her daughter sternly. "When one is married, one must make certain changes—certain accommodations—in the way one conducts one's affairs."

"I am aware of that, Mama. That is why Ernest has discarded the name Jack entirely. He understands completely that when we are married, he will be the same man in the country as in the city. A marriage is no place for a double life."

Augusta allowed herself a small smile. "That is quite true for a man. But for a woman, marriage brings a certain—freedom from scrutiny."

Gwendolen's eyes widened as she took her meaning. "I can assure you, I have no intention of being that sort of woman!"

"It doesn't matter whether you are or not. The important thing is that you must _appear_ not to be."

"Appearances, in this case, will exactly match reality!"

"How unorthodox."

Gwendolen crossed her arms and lifted her chin in what Augusta supposed was intended to be defiance. "I have no reason to look elsewhere. I love him."

"I suppose that simplifies matters."

"Honestly, Mama. Has it been so long since you have been in love that you've forgotten what it's like?"

"That," said Augusta, her manner regal, "is none of your business. Now, I'm sure you have many things to do before tomorrow." 

She watched Gwendolen go. What a ridiculous thing to say to one's mother! But the girl had a point: it _had_ been a very long time since Augusta had been in love. But she had been in love, once. Before she had become Lady Bracknell. A very long time ago, indeed.

* * *

"Hold still!" commanded her mother as she pinned a lock of Augusta's hair so it fell in an artistic curl at her ear, as fashion demanded. "Don't you want to look your best for Mrs Padstow's ball?"

"I hate Mrs Padstow. She is the very image of Clarissa all grown up, and I truly despise Clarissa."

"You would not be attending this ball if not for Clarissa Padstow. And Viscount Aldeburgh is going to be there, can you imagine? What a catch for my little Augusta he would be!"

"I could never love Viscount Aldeburgh! Why, he's nearly as old as you are, Mama. Ow!"

"Sorry, love, my hand slipped. There you are." She held up the glass and Augusta looked at herself with pleasure. Her fashionably dark hair was swept back under a chenille ribbon into a perfect frame for her features. Her dress was not new, but her mother had retrimmed it carefully and added puffs at the sleeves, and with luck, nobody would recognize it.

"I suppose it will do," she said, affecting lack of interest. 

"It will do very well indeed. Viscount Aldeburgh won't be able to take his eyes from you."

"I don't care a fig for Viscount Aldeburgh!"

"He has a great deal of money. _And_ a title."

"Which are clearly the most important characteristics of any potential husband." 

"Clearly," said her mother, nodding. "You must not make the same mistake as your sister. A colonel may be worth more than a captain, but they have nothing on a viscount. And I _do_ wish she had consulted the Court Guide and the Army Lists before deciding upon Moncrieff. After all, it is as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor man."

" _I_ intend to not fall in love at all," said Augusta firmly.

But what she hadn't counted on was the tall, blond, impeccably dressed man who stood near the horrible painting of Clarissa's grandfather, the one with the eyes that followed you around the room no matter where you stood. His clothes were, Augusta was certain, the very height of fashion. His hips were slim and his shoulders were broad, and best of all, he couldn't be more than thirty.

He danced once with Jane Brixham, and as soon as the music stopped and they had bowed to each other, Augusta grabbed Jane by the elbow. "Who was that?"

"Lord Hemsby, do you mean?"

_Lord_ , thought Augusta with delight. That was promising. "He looks to be a fair dancer."

Jane's lips curved in a smile. "He doesn't step on my toes, anyway. Clarissa insisted on inviting him, but…"

Augusta didn't hear anything after "Clarissa." If Clarissa was setting her cap for this Lord Hemsby, that made the prospect all the sweeter. "You must introduce me."

Jane smiled again and led her to the man in question, and soon Augusta was discovering for herself that Lord Hemsby was, indeed, a fair dancer. Which was a good thing, because she found herself so lost in the sparkle of his blue eyes that if it had not been for his sure guidance, she would have taken a wrong step, and that would have been disastrous.

"Now, why have I not seen you yet this season?" he asked, as they walked together toward the refreshments table at the end of their dance. 

"Perhaps it is because you do not mix with the proper crowd."

"I shall endeavour to mix only with this crowd in the future, then," he said gravely. "Would you care for some lemonade?"

She nodded, and thanked him when he handed her a cup. She took a sip; it was too sweet and too thin, but it was something to hold in her hand gracefully, to complete the picture of a lady. "So how are you acquainted with the Padstows? I take it you know Clarissa?" she asked, and then instantly regretted bringing her name into it. 

"It's more that I know her brother. Jeremiah is an acquaintance."

"Not a friend?"

"An acquaintance, merely; I know him well enough to borrow from, but not enough to lend to. But their Mama seems to like me well enough, and so I keep being invited to these things."

"Then we will see each other again?" She tried not to sound as desperately eager as she knew she must appear. 

"I am afraid it is inevitable." Warmth spread through her at his smile, and she had to smile back. "That is, unless Mrs Padstow discovers that I'm entirely unsuitable for her daughter."

"Ah. You are a murderer, then."

He raised an eyebrow. "No."

"A horse thief?"

"Nothing so picturesque."

"Then what objection could Mrs Padstow possibly have?"

"Unfortunately I lack a very important quality in that lady's eyes." He spread his hands. "I am young, not ill-favoured, sit a horse tolerably well—"

"And you clearly have not an ounce of vanity."

He smiled. "There are no grades of vanity, there are only grades of ability in concealing it. But alas, it is not to my lack of vanity but to my lack of a fortune that Mrs Padstow is likely to object."

Augusta hid her disappointment bravely. All was not _completely_ lost. Mama might wish her to marry a rich man, but surely she would be mollified by the title. "I suppose I can overlook your lack of a fortune if you will do the same for me."

"If I only could. You're a lovely girl," he said gently. "But there's the small matter of my debts, you see."

"I do see," she said woodenly. "I suppose it is better to have a permanent income than to be lovely."

"Oh, very much so. After all, the rich are different from you and me." She frowned at him, and he shrugged. "They have more money. And speaking of which," he said, turning to greet a somewhat older, somewhat paunchier man, "hello, Bracknell."

"Hemsby," grunted the man who was presumably Bracknell. "D'ya mind introducing me to this stunning creature?"

"He means you, my dear," said Lord Hemsby, and then bent to whisper in her ear, "Now, _he's_ got pots of money. Pity he hasn't a sister."

Introductions were made, and Augusta brightened at hearing that it was _Lord_ Bracknell. That improved his looks considerably. And then there were the promised pots of money—why, the paunch wasn't that big, when you looked at it straight on. And then he led her out to the dance floor, and he—wasn't bad. 

As the lines of men and women parted and turned in wide pirouettes, Augusta snuck a glance over her shoulder, but Hemsby was no longer even looking in her direction. Oh, well.

The lines came together for the end of the dance. Augusta curtseyed, then gave her partner her most attractive smile. "That was delightful, Lord Bracknell. I _do_ hope we meet again."

* * *

They were married that autumn. It was a coup, as far as her mother was concerned. Augusta herself was more than satisfied, especially considering that Clarissa Padstow had ended the season with no offers other than the penniless younger son of a nobody, upon whom naturally Mrs Padstow did not smile.

And Augusta found that being the wife of Lord George Bracknell suited her. Or rather, being wealthy suited her, which in the end amounted to the same thing. And she was certain that she would never, ever tire of being addressed "Lady Bracknell."

It was nearly a year before she saw Lord Hemsby again. Not that she didn't have news of him: George encountered him at his club from time to time, although she couldn't get anything out of him other than, "Yes, Hemsby, fine chap." Jane Brixham, now Mrs Scarborough, knew more.

"He's married now. Do you remember Miss Kinsale?"

"With the red hair? And the unfortunate nose?"

" _And_ eight thousand a year."

"I see," said Augusta. She expected it was the last that had so moved Lord Hemsby to propose marriage. "Perhaps it's time I had a dinner party."

Jane's eyebrows flew up. "She's hardly in society."

"That is why we must be kind to her," said Augusta. Although she came near to regretting her invitation when the new Lady Hemsby walked through her door. Though her dress was undeniably expensive and well-made, her hair was still its unfashionable colour, and one could not overlook that nose. Her voice was loud and reminiscent of a donkey's bray. And her smile as she greeted Augusta seemed to be practically genuine, which was most unsettling.

As hostess, she controlled the seating arrangements, so naturally she placed Lord Hemsby next to her. He was still as handsome as ever. Poor George suffered by the comparison.

"Good of you to invite us," Hemsby said, his white teeth flashing. Then he lowered his voice. "Mary is anxious to become better acquainted in society."

She shrugged. "To be in society is a bore. But to be out of it is a tragedy."

"She's very grateful."

Augusta leaned closer. "I do hope her background isn't causing you difficulty. There are those who say you deserve better."

"Ah, but if we men married the women we deserved, we should have a very bad time of it."

"So you are having a good time of it, then?" she asked archly.

"It's very odd," he said. "But I'm afraid I seem to have fallen in love with my wife." 

"How scandalous," she said sweetly, but she felt her heart drop into her stomach as he smiled across the table at the woman in question. His smile was not only genuine, it was positively indecent. And the way Lady Hemsby was gazing back at him! No sense of manners, that one. To be flirting in public with her own husband!

It was with some relief that she bid them farewell as they left the house. And some regret, and the loss of her secretly-entertained hopes. She supposed she had been silly, but it was better to discover it now. She would get over it in time.

* * *

"Wake up, George," Lady Bracknell murmured as she elbowed her husband firmly in the side. 

"Hmmph. 'm not sleeping. Is it over yet?"

She nodded her chin in the direction of the aisle, where Mr and Mrs Ernest Worthing walked in perfect step toward the back of the church. 

"Ah," said Lord Bracknell. "She looks happy."

"She looks married."

"She looks as though she loves the chap," said Lord Bracknell, and there was a bit of a wistful sigh in his voice.

Augusta squinted at her daughter. Yes, she looked happy. Radiant. She watched her walk, past the pews filled with family and friends. And there, in a pew with his wife and their odious daughter, was Lord Hemsby; he'd lost his hair and gained a bit of weight over the years. She found it hard to believe she'd ever considered—well, never mind that. Gwendolen looked happy.

"I suppose she does," Augusta finally said. "I suppose that sort of thing is coming into fashion."

"Fancy that," said Lord Bracknell.

**Author's Note:**

>  _If you copy from one author, it's plagiarism. If you copy from two, it's research._ —Wilson Mizner
> 
> The good bits of this story were actually written by famous people who are not me. If you spotted them on your own, pat yourself on the back. If not, the sources are as follows:
> 
> It's just as easy to marry a rich man as it is a poor man—Marilyn Monroe in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Also, my mother.
> 
> _Acquaintance_ , _n._ A person whom we know well enough to borrow from, but not well enough to lend to.—Ambrose Bierce, _The Devil's Dictionary_
> 
> There are no grades of vanity, there are only grades of ability in concealing it.—Mark Twain
> 
> It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating.—Oscar Wilde, _The Model Millionaire_
> 
> The rich are different from you and me.—F. Scott Fitzgerald  
>  Yes, they have more money.—Ernest Hemingway's reply
> 
> I suppose society is wonderfully delightful. To be in it is merely a bore. But to be out of it simply a tragedy.—Oscar Wilde, _A Woman of No Importance_
> 
> My dear father, if we men married the women we deserved, we should have a very bad time of it.—Oscar Wilde, _An Ideal Husband_
> 
> The amount of women in London who flirt with their own husbands is perfectly scandalous. It looks so bad. It is simply washing one’s clean linen in public.—Oscar Wilde, _The Importance of Being Earnest_


End file.
